


many things that i would like to say (to you)

by aimerai



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Too Many References to Wonderwall, soulmates if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimerai/pseuds/aimerai
Summary: Here is a thing people don't know about Tyson. At the end of the summer, Dante left his guitar at Tyson's, because he wouldn't need it at BU, but was going to come home to Tyson before he went back to his parent’s house. Tyson should've kissed him goodbye and didn't, but Dante wanted him to, and they both knew that Tyson wanted to but wasn’t going to. He thought he had time, but Dante didn’t come back when the beginning of next summer came around. Tyson definitely blames it on himself.Or: How Tyson Jost Accidentally Became a Best-Selling Author, and the Resulting Fallout.





	1. here

**Author's Note:**

> So I have not one but TWO lovely mixes for this fic done by the lovely timkon  
> Side A: [Click Here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57bcWhNaDfsIPtVHNI0l3o?si=mmtrlOomTielYTRK4bi44Q)  
> Side B: [Click Here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3Q0pJV6UbuYMP2tB8DwONf?si=AGdBVYt-Qpu5_edMz1_V6g)  
> Please give them a listen bc they're amazing.  
> Also many thanks to all the people who read parts of this and supported me through it, you know who you are.
> 
> There are warnings for this fic that are also super spoilery, please look at the end notes for details.

Tyson starts writing because he doesn’t have anything else left to him. He still feels--it doesn’t feel over. It is over, though. It is most definitely over, like, dead and buried and gone for-fucking-ever. It’s over, and he keeps waking up in the morning to missed calls from the only person who really understands him, and it sucks. Three time zones, and drunk calls, both received and sent. It’s not really ideal, because, well, a lot of reasons, but it’s what he has, and every hungover morning he promises himself he’s not going to call anymore, and every time he gets drunk he does it anyway, so he’s not really dealing well, or at all, really.

So he decides to turn over a new leaf and write it out instead. It worked for all those dead old guys he had to read for English, so it’ll work for him, right? He wonders about all of them, in the process, because every time he starts writing, he has to stop all over again. Some of these things are things he doesn’t want to write down. It feels like showing too much of his hand, even when the only person he's showing it to is himself.

**9/17, 10:02am**

_haven’t heard from you in a while_

_i’m fine_

_your buddy in new york keeps asking_ _  
_ _i didn’t even know he knew that we’re friends_

_he’s a meddler, brock_

_i think he’s worried_

_you see me twice a month_

_he doesn’t_

_the last time i saw him wasn’t really a great memory_

Brock is...easier to talk to than a lot of Tyson’s friends. He’s not pushy, and he’s got his own sadnesses, people who left his life, and life in general, way before their time. Sometimes he’ll trade stories with Tyson, and Tyson manages to remember them, despite the fact that the only time he can actually talk about it is when he’s way past drunk. So Tyson never stands up Brock for their bi-weekly hangouts, because Brock just kinda lets him be, and is willing to ramble about things without expecting Tyson to really answer him. Today it’s a well-lit bar with a kind of antique feel that he’s pretty sure isn’t to Brock’s taste, but is probably recommendation from one of the older guys on the Canucks. If Tyson were still the old Tyson, he would chirp Brock about it while being secretly pleased about it.

“Hey,” Brock says, grinning at Tyson. He already has a bottle of beer cracked open, and he gets up and pulls Tyson into a quick bro hug. “How are you doing, Josty?”

Tyson twitches a little. It's another name, another future even. He wonders what would've happened if he had stayed Josty, and then pushes it away. A what-if is a can't-be, and he can't be thinking about it, because he can't reverse time and make it so, and he’s done it before. A what-if spiral. What if he’d listened, what if they’d talked about it, what if he’d called more, what if, what if, what if until he's ready to lose his mind. “Hey.”

“Your dude in New York is super pushy,” Brock says, which sounds like Mat. “Is he okay?”

“He’s intimately connected with my guy,” Tyson says, because that’s one way of putting it, and he’s still not at the point where he can use _his_ name. “They could’ve been, but they weren't.”

Brock winces. Tyson doesn’t feel bad at all, because as much as he likes Brock, when you ask a stupid question, you get punishing honesty. Tyson also thinks he used to be nicer, but c’est la vie, or whatever, so. He can feel the beginnings of an awful migraine, starting at his temples and forehead, and eventually working its way down to his jaw, probably. He should’ve cancelled, but Brock is going on a week long roadie after this, and he's one of Tyson's only friends who doesn't know everything. Who knows what happened, but doesn’t understand the entire magnitude of it, that this is a forever thing that broke. Everyone else knows, and is trying to put some of it back together, except for Mat, who gets it as much as Tyson, that sometimes forever things don’t work out.

**10/09, 5:27am**

_bro did u change your number????_

**10/11, 11:08pm**

_josty??????_

_tyson????_

**10/15: 4:13am**

_?_

**10/15, 9:07am**

_i kno ur reading these_ _  
_ _u haven’t turned read receipts off_  
 _and if ur not tys, thats weird as fuck_

**10/17, 3:03am**

_you’ve called me three times already_ _  
_ _drink some water and go to bed_

**10/19, 10:16pm**

_tyson_

**10/20, 11:11am**

_sorry. it won’t happen again._

_you know that’s not my problem, right?_

_i don’t want to talk about it._

_you never do_

**10/24, 1:41am**

_i still have his guitar._

**10/24, 9:20am**

_he probably doesn’t care that you have it._

_sorry._

_i didn’t mean it that way._

**10/27, 2:33am**

_go to bed, mat._

_thx for yday_

_don’t get used to it_

**11/01 4:44am**

_tyson call me right now_

_i’m serious are you okay_

_your voicemail scared the shit out of me_

_tell me you’re okay_

**11/01: 8:17am**

_okay._

_as much as i can be_

_sorry_

Tyson hates this. He hates being like this, and he doesn’t want to be like this, but he doesn’t know how to help himself out of this. Sometimes, on a rare night when he’s not spiraling, not swiping through old photos on his phone, he thinks, with crystal-clear clarity, that he has to be better than this, but then the morning comes. He sleeps at 8pm or 4am, with no in-between, works a job that he doesn’t hate but doesn’t enjoy. He’s the very definition of going through the motions, but he doesn’t know how to stop.

In the mornings, in the mirror, shaving but doing nothing about the dark circles under his eyes, he thinks about it. About stopping whatever this fucking is, where he’s tired all the goddamn time, where it takes all his energy to get basic tasks done. How sometimes, he spends his Saturdays in bed all day. Sometimes he’s aimlessly refreshing his twitter, sometimes he’s going through old photos and crying, and sometimes he has a Word document open that is almost as raw as Tyson feels. He feels fucking useless, is what it is. He keeps writing, though. Some days it helps, to think about the way _he_ used to smile, and how Tyson would always smile back, even when he was trying not to. Most days, all it does is hurt.

Tyson used to know how to be happy. Fuck, Tyson even used to know how to be cheerful. He manages to fake it for his coworkers, smiles in all the right places, laughs at all the right jokes, but when he goes home, he takes off the mask and he’s nothing again. He’s empty, and drained, like everything good about Tyson went with _him_. Tyson thinks it might have, to be perfectly honest. He manages to fake it for his family, so at least they worry less, but it’s hard to talk to anyone, anymore.

He looks up therapists once, because they exist for this kind of thing, he’s sure, but it doesn’t feel legit to be going to one. He doesn’t really need one; there are people with worse problems than him. He just has a ghost he can't get rid of. Well. He doesn't even have a ghost, just a hole where a whole other person should be. He still considers it, but the lady on the phone sounds bored and disinterested and that's not the kind of place he wants to go, not at all. That’s not the kind of place where he’ll be able to explain anything, so it’ll never be the kind of place where he can say everything.

More and more, it turns out that the only place he can say anything is to a fucking Word doc, memories and secrets and confessions and all of the things he thought he’d have time to say. He thought they’d never end, you know? He thought they were a surefire forever thing, but fate screws people over.

**11/24, 9:03am**

_his parents keep calling me._

_yeah?_

_i changed numbers._

_but theyre still calling?_

_now they call my mom or email me._

_i get it. you two were supposed to be forever._

_can we not talk about that?_

_sorry._

_i get where his parents are coming from, thats all_

_barzy not today._

_not today, maybe not ever._ _  
_ _i know_

Tyson has a killer migraine, and it’s cold as fuck outside, but he’s feeling restless. He feels like there's something he's forgetting to do, but he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't have any reminders set, and keeps trying to nap, buried under multiple layers of blankets in a dark, quiet cocoon, nothing quite as loud as his breath. It's not working, making him feel claustrophobic and too hot.

He gives up, throwing the blankets off of him disgustedly. The entire time that he's getting dressed he doesn't know what he's doing, thermals under heavy layers, and a scarf and hat and gloves on top of it all. He steps outside of his apartment and automatically, his feet direct him to the nearest Tim Horton’s. Tyson doesn't remember ever coming to this one before, and the barista has hair that reminds him of Dante, which is probably why Tyson forgets himself and orders a hot chocolate and a double-double, and then stands there and wonders why the fuck he did that. Well. He knows why.

**12/03, 12:25pm**

_i think they want me to come for the holidays_

_that's going to be too awkward_

_mama jost won't save u?_

_i haven't asked her_

_bro._

_ask her._

_ill be there for a bit bc i have to_

_so if she wont ur welcome at mine_

_ill keep you away from any and all fabbros_

_even if its only like_

_30 min from mine to theirs_

_wow_

_that's almost nice of you_

_wtf bro_

_im trying to help_

_:P_

_i hate u_

_:P :P_

_drama queen_

_go fuck urself_

_ur still welcome at mine tho_

_thanks_

“How are you?” his mother asks.

He can't tell her about the ache in his hip and the fact that he's been limping everywhere. She worries enough about him, and he’s not even sure where he hit himself. He doesn’t remember hitting himself, and it kinda scares him, but there’s no bruise, so who the fuck even knows what’s wrong. It’s like his body is just giving up on him. “I think I might move.”

“Move where?”

“I have an offer for a consulting job in New York,” Tyson says. Doesn't add that he applied for it, or that it allows him to work from home most of the week. She worries enough about him as it is.

“You’re planning to take it?” She doesn’t even sound mad, or disappointed. She sounds almost like she knew this was coming.

Tyson nods, forgetting that she can’t see him. “I think so. It might be nice to get a change of scenery.”

“I’m proud of you,” she says, because she’s an awesome mom even when Tyson is sometimes a terrible son. He’s going to write her the nicest fucking letter this year for Christmas. It’s going to be so many pages. He should’ve told her in person, too, but this way he doesn’t have to see her face. He’s a coward, maybe.

 **[excerpt from the early rough draft of** **_how to let go and other lies i told myself_** **. cut out by the editor]**

_I saw someone who looked like you the other day. But they didn’t have enough eyebrow to judge with? Not even close to caterpillar status, they were sad, pathetic excuses for eyebrows. All I could think of was that time three summers ago where you wouldn’t stop bugging Mat at Summerland. You two just wouldn't stop arguing; you telling Mat he was going for Disney Villain Backup #1 if they arched any higher, and him telling you they were going to fall off your face if they got any heavier._

_He pushed you into the water afterwards and you came up soaked but laughing. Will you call me an idiot if I say I miss your laugh?_

Tyson blinks awake and his room is flooded with light. He's sure he drew the curtains last night, but whatever. He's still getting used to New York. He was up till two writing, because he was stuck on memory lane, and the last hour or so of writing is just fuzzy. Tyson doesn’t know if he actually opened the curtains during that hour, because he might have, somewhere between making fun of Dante’s hair, and then crying about Dante’s hair. Dante would never let him live it down, but Dante’s not here, and Dante is never going to read what is currently about seventy pages of Tyson rambling about all the things he loves about him and reminiscing and being a giant mess, basically.

He gets out of bed and turns on the radio, switches dials and settles on a station that seems to be playing old Lady Antebellum. He misses Dante more than usual, like a whole extra limb, probably because he ended up adding another thousand words yesterday. He starts the coffee maker and then goes to brush his teeth and wash his face, and by the time he hears the beep that means his coffee is done, the radio has decided to kick him in the heart as well.

Wonderwall is playing, and Tyson just really can’t handle that right now. He switches the channel, and it's Hey Baby, the Bruce Channel version, and that's not the version that hurts the most, but that's the version that reminds him of crooning in his ear, obviously drunk, interspersed with laughter. Maybe this _is_ the version that hurts the most. Tyson switches channels again, and it’s Wonderwall, again, on a different channel, but it’s a cover, a woman and production. Tyson tries to turn off the radio, but it switches back to ‘ _c’mon baby, give me a whirl.’_ It takes longer than he wants to admit to turn it off.

Tyson calls in to work, his voice choked up, and nose stuffed. He keeps sniffling during the conversation with his supervisor, and she tells him to _take the day off, Tyson, don’t force yourself_. Tyson doesn’t tell her that this entire thing is him forcing himself and says thank you, and blinks when he hangs up and notices that his bottle of extra strength Tylenol is on his nightstand. He doesn't remember putting it there yesterday, but that seems to be par for the course for his memory.

**02/12, 11:17am**

_are you doing anything for_

_you know_

_i really don’t want to think about this anniversary_

_yeah thats fair_

_idk i just don’t want you to be alone_

_i’ll manage_

_you should be able to do better than manage_

_maybe if it weren’t about dante_

_yeah ok_

_call me if you need me_

_we’re always gonna be #boyz_

_i think that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me_

_:(_

Tyson thinks he might be going crazy, like that guy who thought his landlord or someone was messing with his apartment only for it to be carbon monoxide poisoning. Tyson checked his alarm and it still works, so he must be going crazy. Maybe it's just because it's a new apartment, and a new city, but things are weird. The US is weird, and NYC is weirder, and Wonderwall is usually playing on the radio every single fucking day, somehow, and Americans are weirdly obsessed with country, and one of his neighbours has his goddamn name.

And he’d be able to handle all of that, if it weren’t for the fact that he is losing his goddamn mind. His curtains are open when they shouldn’t be, and shut when Tyson is sure he left them open. His pain meds are always where he needs them to be. Sometimes he wakes up to all the lights being off even though he never turned them off. Sometimes when he’s falling asleep, he hears soft, indistinct singing, and the walls of these apartments aren’t that thin. Tyson knows, because he asked other Tyson his neighbour if anyone here sings late at night, and other Tyson had looked really confused. And that’s not even getting into all the random breezes, or whatever is going on in the kitchen, where the stove flames sometimes light up red instead of blue. So, he might accidentally have bought a fucking possessed apartment, and he can’t deal with it.

The last straw is when he notices that the guitar case that he never touches is open, sunlight shining against the strings.

He knows he’s being stupid, but he crosses his arms and says it anyway, out loud, to what is definitely his haunted apartment, because Tyson is never, ever touching that guitar. “You can’t do that. I’m sorry, you can mess with whatever else in this apartment, but please. You can’t--not the guitar.”

He swipes at his eyes, because yes, he actually is crying about this. “It’s the only thing I have left from someone I care about, I’m serious, please.”

Here is a thing people don't know about Tyson. At the end of the summer, Dante left his guitar at Tyson's, because he wouldn't need it at BU, but was going to come home to Tyson before he went back to his parent’s house. Tyson should've kissed him goodbye and didn't, but Dante wanted him to, and they both knew that Tyson wanted to but wasn’t going to. He thought he had time, but Dante didn’t come back when the beginning of next summer came around. Tyson definitely blames it on himself.


	2. there

When Tyson gets home from grocery shopping, Dante is lounging on the couch, watching the Canucks get their collective asses beat up, down four in the second. Tyson feels a shred of sympathy for Brock. He should probably text him.

“Hey, bro,” Dante says, totally unconcerned, not even looking away from the game. “What did you get?”

“Food. Some weird guitar picks,” Tyson says. “The art store that shut down became a music store.”

“Show me,” Dante says, sitting straight up and making grabby hands, looking at Tyson.

Tyson laughs. Dante is so predictable, but he still didn’t expect this level of excitement. “Hold on, let me put everything else away; there’s frozens.”

“Hurry up,” Dante urges, getting up from the couch and making little shooing motions at Tyson. Tyson wishes he’d thought of bringing Dante picks earlier, because he looks so ridiculously excited about it that it makes Tyson’s heart flutter.

“I’m doing it,” Tyson replies, shaking his head, as if he isn’t smiling ear to ear right now. He makes his way back into the kitchen faster than he would have, anyway, Dante’s enthusiasm catching. “The only difference between you and a pet is that you can actually communicate.”

“Tyson ‘Whatever Your Middle Name Is’ Jost, that’s rude behaviour and I absolutely won’t tolerate it in this house,” Dante says, as if he wouldn’t have been sticking his tongue out at Tyson if they had been in the same room. Also, he doesn’t even pay rent; the lease is in Tyson’s name.

“You don’t even pay rent,” Tyson says, out loud, because it’s an appropriate response.

“I’m your kept man,” Dante tells him. “I clean, and make sure you don’t choke on your vomit when you’ve been drinking.”

Tyson sputters, but it’s true. Dante keeps their place magically clean and does laundry and is always great company. He leaves Tyson meds after he’s been drinking and has the funniest commentary and doesn't laugh when Tyson starts dancing along to music in the kitchen or anywhere else really. And he knows when Tyson's going to have a bad day with his head before Tyson even knows most days, keeps the blackout curtains shut and painkillers and tea handy.

 **[the Word doc that eventually becomes** **_how to let go and other lies i told myself,_ ** **deleted by Tyson]**

_Okay. Okay, I am a little drunk? A lot drunk? I might delete this in the morning, but you’re like, the fucking best. I don’t even care if I’m being delusional and dumb, but you’ve known before me when I’m going to have migraines, and I don’t know how you do it, but it’s like you put your hands on my forehead and half the pain vanishes a little later. Anyway, right now, you’re sitting on the couch and laughing at me writing what I am telling you is absolutely essential, because, like, it is, and also you don’t even know that this Word doc exists for obvious reasons. Anyway, you’re a fucking gem, you can quote me, Dante Fabbro, Professional Fucking Gem. I love you._

Dante is using one of the new picks and plucking out random bits of tunes. He has a folder of sheet music Tyson bought for him way back when and keeps adding to, but doesn't seem to want to use it right now. Tyson doesn't normally mind, but every time he finally recognises what Dante’s playing, Dante decides to change it on him, which makes tapping his foot to the beat very difficult, and therefore concentrating on writing even more difficult.

“Could you pick something and stick to it?” Tyson asks.

Dante looks at him levelly, and keeps up with the randomness while staring Tyson right in the eyes. He’s such a shit, and despite his growing irritation, Tyson almost wants to smile at him. Right when Tyson is about to ask him again, the random guitar resolves itself into Wonderwall. Tyson stifles a groan. Dante’s first choice for annoying the fuck out of Tyson has always been and always will be Wonderwall, even when Tyson complains about how it’s such a basic song to learn. Dante always retaliates by saying that Tyson still can’t play it, which is true, but that’s more because Tyson never touches Dante’s guitar.

“Anyway, here’s Wonderwall,” Dante says, because he’s a little shit, and almost shaking with suppressed laughter at the look on Tyson’s face. He starts humming along, and it sounds hella smug, his eyes fixed on Tyson the entire time. Tyson focuses on his Word document with difficulty, but over time, the guitar and Dante’s humming fades to pleasant background noise, and the clacking of Tyson’s laptop keys joins them. He doesn’t even notice the guitar fade, caught up in all the words he’s trying to get out.

He does notice when the laptop almost slams shut on his hands. “Dude, you've been working for two hours straight. Take a break and stop freaking me out,” Dante says, and he’s not even smiling, which means he really is worried.

“Just gotta finish two more pages,” Tyson says, cracking his knuckles. He needs to get the last of these edits to the publisher by the end of the week, and then he can finally stop worrying about this book. He doesn’t have to do anything once it’s published. Maybe a book tour or two, but nothing major. It's mostly for him and a little bit for everyone else who doesn't get it.

“After that, take a break. I wanna play chel,” Dante says. “You’re going to get your ass kicked, bro.”

“In case you don’t remember, when you get too excited, you lose control of the controller,” Tyson says. “Don’t think I forgot about you flinging it behind the couch.”

“All you do is chirp me,” Dante says, scrunching up his nose, making the dumb face he always does.

**[Post-It stuck on Tyson's laptop, next to the trackpad]**

_Dante, if I fall asleep writing and you see this, please just make sure I get into a bed or I’m going to end up with a crick in my neck. You’re the best, bro._

“I thought you had prescription meds for your migraines,” Dante says, laying a cool hand on Tyson’s forehead.

It feels so good Tyson could cry, the throbbing not only in his head but also in his face. “No, they started making them worse, so I stopped. Just extra-strength Tylenol.”

“You want me to get you anything?” Dante asks, whispering.

Tyson shakes his head. “Maybe some coffee, later. Sometimes the caffeine helps.”

Dante bites his lip, and presses down more on Tyson’s forehead. Dante’s hand is still cool, and Tyson’s forehead feels all tingly. “I’ll let you try to sleep it off?”

“Please,” Tyson says, softly.

Dante’s fingers go through Tyson’s hair once, before he moves out of reach. “I’ll get you some tea.”

Tyson wants to tell him to stay, and to keep playing with his hair, because it was a shivery nice distraction from the fact that his skull feels like it’s splitting. But that’s not bros, and it’s not fair to Dante to bring it up now, so he doesn’t, shuts his eyes and tries to fall asleep instead. His migraine is already feeling lighter, and when he’s half asleep, he swears he hears Dante singing Hey Baby, soft and light like a lullaby, but Tyson likes to dream about things he can’t have.

**3/01, 4:03pm**

_how’s New York?_

_Americans are so weird_

_I’m american and we both went to UND you’re used to americans_

_okay but New York Americans are so weird???_

_yeah fair_

_we’re playing the rangers next thurs_

_drinks?_

_sure_

_i have a list of good bars now_

_look at you and your priorities_

_let it go_

_i think i’m losing it a little_

_about?_

**3/02, 7:30pm**

_idk. i kinda miss Canada_

_well, adjustment periods_

_I was worried you meant something else_

**3/02, 11:43pm**

_no_

_no, i think i’m doing better_

_good to hear, bro_

Tyson knows, okay? He knows that Dante’s dead, has been dead for a while now, but Dante’s also here, in his apartment, generally being a dick. He acts like Dante, and he knows things that Tyson doesn’t, so Tyson is reasonably sure that Dante in the here and now is real, and not a figment of his imagination from totally fucking losing it. Like, he’s not totally positive, but he’s pretty fucking sure that Dante’s real. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he’s really grateful to the powers that be or whatever, whoever it is that allowed him this much, because it means everything.

It keeps Tyson from feeling too lonely, living in an apartment alone far far away from the rest of his family. It felt good at the time, to move somewhere that didn’t feel haunted by Dante, except that in the end, he ended up haunted by Dante anyway. This is a much better kind of haunting, anyway.

**3/14, 2:04pm**

_some of my teammates asked_

_after_

_how did they even know_

_someone took a photo._

_how bad?_

_bad._

_you were in it._

_is it still up?_

_not anymore. but they know now._

_are they being assholes?_

_worse. they’re babying me bc it’s around that time again_

_well that fucking sucks. i could fight them_

_thanks_

_i’m glad you’re doing better_

_did that hurt to say?_

_it’s good to have you back_

_shut up_

“Did you hurt yourself?” Dante asks. He’s sitting at the counter while Tyson cooks dinner.

Tyson gives him a look. “What do you mean?”

“You’re limping,” Dante tells him, brows furrowed in concern. They really do look like angry caterpillars. Tyson is so valid for wanting to call the book that, but no, it wasn’t “poetic” enough.

Tyson bites his lip, his hand unconsciously pressing into his hip bone. “Sometimes it just aches.”

Dante’s hand rubs absently at his own hip, like he’s feeling the phantom pain of Tyson’s body being weird. Then he stiffens, and disappears. That pretty much confirms Tyson’s suspicions, about how his migraines are worst on the same side as his hip, and how they feel so much better once Dante touches him.

“Dante,” Tyson says, out loud, to his empty apartment. “I know, already. You’re a shit liar.” He would say that even dying didn’t kill it in him, but it’s a little insensitive.

The apartment is still too fucking quiet, but Dante's still here, just probably panicking. “It doesn't matter,” Tyson says. “It doesn't. I'd rather have you.”

The lights go out. Tyson turns off the stove, because it's gas, and still, miraculously, on, and crosses his arms. “Is this you throwing a tantrum?”

He waits for a moment, but it's still quiet. “Dante, I swear, it's fine.”

“It's not,” he hears, from across the room. “It's really not.”

In the next minute, several things happen all at once. Something crackles like static discharge, before the kitchen blazes up with the luminescent glowing he associates with Dante in the dark, moonlight made real, and for a split second in between it, he sees Dante the way he must have looked when--

Every light in the apartment comes on at once, and Dante is back to looking the way he usually does. Maybe a little paler than usual, and hazy around the edges, but he's here and that's really all Tyson can ask for. He heaves a sigh of relief, and ignores that the spots in his vision are green.

“I could make it stop,” Dante says, after a long silence where they just stare at each other.

Tyson knows what he's offering, but that would be worse. “Absolutely not.”

Dante looks mutinous and bratty. “Tyson.”

“Dante,” Tyson repeats, in the same bitchy tone.

“It won't get better,” Dante says, after another silent standoff.

“Your eyebrow is twitching,” Tyson says, fascinated.

Dante's glaring at him, but his face is glowing. “Can you take this seriously?”

“I'm taking this dead seriously,” Tyson says, and doesn't take it back, even though Dante, for one moment, looks like he's going to deck Tyson. His arm will probably go right through anyway. “Florida exists.”

Dante huffs out a breath, losing the battle to not smile,  and that's how Tyson knows he's won for good, even though Dante says “We'll see.”

Tyson can take the pain if he gets to keep Dante. He might have a nightmare or many, about the side of Dante’s face, about the way he looked in that split second before all the lights came back on. But he gets to keep Dante, so the feedback doesn’t matter.


	3. everywhere

**[excerpt of a book review, taken from _echo's read along blog_ ]**

_So, let's talk about this fucking book, you guys. I know you all know that I was really skeptical about reading_ how to let go and other lies I told myself _, because there’s just so much hype, but like. Wow. Tyson Jost, I don’t know who your lady is, but I miss her too, now._

_Which, for those of you have no idea what I’m talking about: this entire book is a series of vignettes and poetry that’s not really poetry. It’s not flowery romanticism--Jost at one point literally talks about how his lover, who is only ever addressed as ‘you’ throughout the course of this book, never does the dishes without breaking something in the process. But he’s so fucking fond, and there’s an ongoing theme of heartbreak; all this imagery about his lover being gone. There was this one line, about how sometimes he hears the guitar playing Wonderwall when he comes home, that just really got to me, because it’s goofy, and dumb, but placed in the context of everything else, it’s just too much to handle. Also the caterpillar eyebrow joke; I’m sorry but I was like, teary-eyed but still laughing._

“You’re becoming rather well-known,” the reporter says, and Tyson keeps the smile on his face while internally rolling his eyes. That’s not a question. Could she ask a question or is she going to keep stating facts while expecting him to answer, because it’s annoying as fuck. He doesn’t know what she even wants him to say, and that’s why he has a publicist, probably. So he doesn’t just tell reporters and talk show hosts to fuck off, and also so he doesn’t accidentally ruin how viral he’s going by spilling and saying that the entire book was written for a man, and is, therefore, Gay Literature.

He tries to make his grin a little more natural. “Well, I was surprised. It was really just supposed to be for me and a few others who knew this person, and then my sister called me, all ‘Tyson you’re in the newspaper,’ and you know it’s serious when she’s not making fun of me.”

“Of course this is a nonfiction, memoir-style work which leads me to wonder: did you expect your book to become the mystery of the summer?”

Tyson tries not to scratch his face, because someone complained the last time he did it. “I actually wasn't expecting this book to get big. I wrote it for myself, mostly, but apparently it really spoke to everyone else, which is amazing, but so so weird. I've gotten stopped while grocery-shopping twice and it was just as weird the second time. Kacey--that’s my sister--keeps telling me about all these people reading _learning to let go and other lies I told myself_ which is just unbelievable, really.”

**[ _how to let go and other lies i told myself,_ page 43]**

_Every day I remember that I’ll never get to see you become a butterfly, and it leaves me breathless._

“Saw your interview,” Dante says, from where he’s sitting on the back of the couch. On it. That’s not how people sit on furniture, Dante.

“What did you think?” Tyson asks, loosening his tie, which feels like it’s choking him now. He fucking hates ties, but his publicist had taken one look at him and said he needed to wear one, muttering something about credibility and jewel tones.

Dante grins in that way he does when he’s feeling chirpy. “Well, at first I couldn’t believe they put your ugly mug on TV--”

“Hey!” Tyson breaks in, laughing.

“No, it was good,” Dante says, smile softening. “You sounded good.”

“Thanks,” Tyson says, his heart twisting.

“Got a face made for TV,” Dante says. “Remember me when you end up so famous that you need bodyguards.”

“That's not going to happen,” Tyson says, blanching. That is a terrible idea. Worst future. “I'm not an actor or anything; it's just one book and I'm not planning on writing any more.”

“Really?” Dante asks, genuinely surprised. “None? You spent months working on this one.”

“I don’t really want to write anymore,” Tyson admits. “This was really more of an unfortunate accident. Oh, hey I brought you a guitar pick,” Tyson says, reaching for his wallet.

“You did?” Dante asks, surprised.

Tyson shrugs. “I thought you could start like, a collection or something, considering how many of them you have now. I can get you a new one every time I have to go somewhere to promote myself.”

“That’s not a bad idea, especially if you keep buying them for me, idiot,” Dante says, rolling his eyes fondly. “Show me the goods.”

“I’m getting there,” Tyson says. He fishes the pick out of his wallet and hands it to Dante, who just stares at it for a moment before bursting into laughter.

Score. Tyson picked well. He’d seen the little alien face and smiled, and thought Dante would too. He’s glad he was right.

**[taped on top of a pristine copy of _The Great American Country Songbook_ with a guitar pick showing a gun-slinging sloth inside the front cover _]_**

_Hey Dante, I don't know when you're going to come back, and you don't need to disappear every time I make a joke about death, you can just tell me it's off-limits. But here--I'm really sorry, just tell me what I did wrong._

He gets a call from Brock while he’s picking up dinner, and doesn’t mind picking up. It’s at least a ten minute walk back to the apartment, and it’s nice outside, and he’s actually still waiting for his order. He’s going to look like a dick, but he doesn’t get to talk to Brock often, what with his busy NHL schedule and Tyson’s increasingly busy life of media appearances and book signings.

“Dude,” Brock says, laughing breathlessly. “Dude.”

“What’s up?” Tyson asks.

Brock sounds like he’s smiling. “I just saw you on TV, bro.”

Tyson grins. “Yeah? I’m catching up to you, dude, you’re practically always on TV, right?”

“Shut up, that’s totally different,” Brock laughs. “I’m ordering your book on Amazon as we speak; hopefully it gets here before our next roadie.”

“You didn’t have to, dude,” Tyson says, knowing his face is growing uncomfortably warm. He didn’t really think that people were going to read his book, when it was first published. It makes him kinda uncomfortable that they are, because that’s Tyson’s fucking heart in the pages, and it was just supposed to be his own way of dealing with Dante, and now the whole world knows, and the people who know Dante and him know everything. Tyson doesn't like being this vulnerable at all.

“Of course I was going to,” Brock says warmly, without hesitation. He’s a good friend.

Tyson’s number finally gets called, and he hands over his credit card to the cashier immediately. “So how have you been, how’s hockey?”

“Are you telling me you don’t know how the Canucks are doing?” Brock chirps.

“I mean, I’m from Alberta, dude, Vancouver has always been more Dante’s thing,” Tyson says, because it just slips out.

Brock is silent for a moment, but he understands better than most people. He’s lost people, too, and he hadn’t lost touch with Tyson in that dark period. He’d called and let Tyson ramble about Dante all the time, and sometimes Brock would reciprocate with his own stories about the people no longer in his life, and they’d both end up crying on the phone while pretending they weren’t doing it. “Yeah?” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Tyson says. His throat is closing up, and he’s in public, and about to have yet another Dante moment. He takes back his credit card and his takeout, and starts heading out of the restaurant. “It’s--he grew up in the Vancouver suburbs, right? Coquitlam. He grew up loving the Canucks, but he loves the Preds because of Shea Weber. He used to catch every Vancouver game he could, though, because who the fuck was going to watch the Habs fall apart night after night?”

Brock laughs. “Man, I wish I’d gotten to know him better.”

Tyson almost says, ‘you will,’ but he’ll wait for the chirping when it comes. In some ways, this book is the biggest mistake he’s ever made, thousands of words of how much he loves Dante just spread out there for the world to see and pick apart and judge, but in some ways, it’s the best thing Tyson’s ever done, memorializing the best version of Dante for everyone to love.

**[note left on top of Tyson's laptop after he's gone to bed]**

_Your hair is still a fucking disaster, even as a ghost. What’s up with that? (I know you read these)._

“You know I can see you moving my clothes, right?” Tyson murmurs drowsily. He’s pretty sure Dante hasn’t realised that Tyson is still semi-awake.

Dante disappears, but Tyson’s clothes are still floating in midair. Tyson knew he hadn’t been imagining that the clothes he laid out at night were different from the clothes that were laid out in the morning. Well, he hadn’t known, but he should’ve figured that Dante was changing things.

“Disappearing doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re the one doing it, Dante,” Tyson whispers.

Dante flickers back. “I just--I wanted to help,” he murmurs, and he’s glowing brighter in the face. He’s really cute, but Tyson absolutely can’t say that out loud.

“Thanks babe,” Tyson says, already half asleep. For a moment it feels like the entire room is bathed in light, but right before Tyson drifts off, he hears a whispered ‘you’re welcome’ and Dante’s hand running through his hair. He smiles, and sleeps--really well, actually.

Tyson’s mom doesn’t change anything in his outfit in the morning, which means Tyson definitely needs to thank Dante except it’ll make his big head swell even more, but she does tell him he should wear a tie, and Tyson’s never been great at tying them.

“Can I help?” Dante asks, after Tyson’s fifth attempt at tying his tie goes wrong.

“Can you even tie a tie?” Tyson asks.

Dante nods. “At least on someone else, I can, hold on.”

The thing is, Tyson gets goosebumps, and his hair raises every time Dante is that close to him, which feels weird, but is even worse when Dante’s hands are near his neck, because he absolutely cannot stop from feeling ticklish. It’s just something about Dante’s energy, and by the time the tie is finally tied, Tyson is red-faced from giggling, and Dante’s biting his lip so he doesn’t laugh but losing the battle to stay composed anyway. “How do I look?” Tyson asks.

Dante checks him out, slowly and thoroughly, from his feet in polished leather shoes to his hair, which has been gelled in place, and Tyson tries so hard not to blush. He probably fails miserably. “Good. You look good. It’s a little weird that you don’t have the unbuttoned shirt, though.”

“Oh my god, you too?” Tyson says, in mock-outrage.

“Tyson, having one shirt button unbuttoned, and needing it to be like that, is a little weird,” Dante says, laughing already. “All your photos with fans so far pretty much have the one unbuttoned thing.”

“You’re like, the only person who knows about that,” Tyson grumbles, crossing his arms. He’s not pouting.

“I should create an account on Twitter just to tell people about this,” Dante says, grinning.

“Don’t you dare,” Tyson says.

**[ _how to let go and other lies i told myself_ , page 77]**

_Your old guitar is on my bedroom wall, and sometimes, babe, I walk in the door and all I can hear is you playing Wonderwall, and laughing at the face I’d make, trips down memory alley to us around beach campfires and you playing all this classic stuff. You always did like that song, but I think you drunkenly singing Hey Baby into my ear has always been my favourite._

Other Tyson who is his neighbour on the left runs into Tyson on his way back from an interview that, luckily, was in New York itself. “Saw you on TV the other day,” he mentions offhandedly. “Coming back from another interview?”

Other Tyson is remarkably chill about this. Other Tyson is also one of the weirdest individuals Tyson has ever met, so he supposes this isn’t much of a surprise.

“Yeah,” Tyson says. “The infinitely large press machine is still not tired.”

“I have a copy; I just haven’t started reading it yet,” Other Tyson admits. “Gabe told me I was going to cry, and I haven’t had a free weekend to spend crying recently.”

Tyson scratches at the back of his neck. "Yeah, uh, that does seem to be the general consensus, so I guess I did something right?"

"You're a bestseller," Other Tyson agrees, cheerfully. "Anyway, I'd love to stay and chat but I have an ice cream date, and you should never get in between a man and his DQ."

**10/17, 2:33pm**

_today i counted four people in the library with copies of your book_

_why do i need to know this?_

_so that you remember your darling sister who told you to publish this now that you're a bestseller?_

_i don't know how i feel about it being so big_

_yeah, i don't know either_

_some day it just sucks_

_i can't imagine how you feel_

_mostly like i want to strangle the publishers_

_"let's make it gender neutral for mass appeal"_

_almost every single person is all who's the lucky lady_

_ugh_

_kacey i swear one of these days i'm just going to say "it's for a MAN deal with it"_

_oh my god. do it. it would be hilarious._

_i'm this close i swear_

_please let me know if you do. i'm gonna record that shit_

_u wanna call me to bitch more? it's lunch for me_

_yeah, one sec_

The call on his phone is from Nashville. Tyson picks up, because he has his suspicions.

“Thank you,” says a voice he hasn’t heard in two years, but still recognises intimately. “Thank you so much.”

“Hi Sophia,” Tyson says, and his heart throbs a little.

“Tyson, I can’t--you couldn’t have written a better tribute,” Sophia Fabbro says, and it’s probably the best compliment he’s received so far.

Tyson bites his lip. “You don’t mind, right?”

“No--of course not. We all knew you two would have figured yourself out if you’d only had enough time,” Sophia says warmly, not seeming to realise she’s just shot Tyson right in the heart at point blank range. “Tyson, thank you.”

**10/21, 6:25pm**

_tyson is this book really what i think it is_

_they wouldn’t let me call it two angry caterpillars :(_

_fuck i remember that. what did dante call mine, again?_

_i think like, Backup Disney Villain or something like that_

_yeah that sounds about right_

_anyway i have a book to read on the plane now_

_thanks bro_

_...okay?_

“You’re an asshole,” a familiar voice says, over the intercom. “Dude, I cried on the team plane, and then I got fined for it.”

“We’re going to get coffee,” Tyson replies, before hanging up, throwing on a light coat and shoving on his shoes.

“Dante?” Tyson calls.

Dante shows up in the living room doorway. “You’re leaving?” he asks, face falling.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Tyson replies. “Something came up; I have to go. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

Dante frowns, but lets Tyson go, saying a sort of forlorn sounding goodbye. The problem with Tyson getting big, is that he's spending less time in the apartment, with Dante, and it really sucks for both of them, although Tyson's not sure Dante knows that it's actually bothering him. He'll have to do something about that, but after he deals with this pest.

Tyson reaches the lobby only to see that Mat Barzal is standing in front of the mirror there, pretending he’s not preening, looking like a total douche. Tyson’s pretty sure it’s just his face, but also, he’s not the most charitable person in the world to Mat, because the only person who’d been nearly as devastated about Dante as Tyson had been Mat. Some things you can’t come back from, and Mat has heard way too many things from a Tyson too drunk to filter himself, sick with missing Dante. Tyson’s heard nearly as many things from Mat, and it makes face-to-face interaction feel weird to him.

“Hi Super Famous Author, will you sign my body?” Mat asks breathlessly, fluttering his eyelashes.

Tyson rolls his eyes and mimics Mat’s voice. “Hi Super Famous Hot NHL Player, will you sign my tits?”

Mat blushes a little. “Shut up. Also, you think I’m hot?”

“I think you’re too much of a dick to be hot, but I know the fangirls do,” Tyson says. “It’s just because they don’t know what an ass you really are.”

“Tyson, seriously, your book was just…” Mat trails off.

“Did you actually cry on the team plane?” Tyson asks.

Mat makes a face, and he’s blushing again, which is a yes. “I’d forgotten, you know.”

“Forgotten what?” Tyson asks.

Mat shrugs. “Just, things about Dante in general. The way he used to blush all the way down his neck, and how he looked after he’d been studying for sixteen hours straight, and how much he fucking loved to play guitar. It doesn’t feel good.”

Tyson feels a bit guilty, thinking about Dante in his apartment, but lets himself enjoy catching up with Mat, doesn’t even realise when they walk a few blocks and end up back at his apartment. Mat follows him up like a barnacle, probably because he’s trying to do that worried hovering that he learned how to do because of Tyson.

“Tyson, you're not the only one who misses him,” Mat says, almost kind, and that's its own form of trip, that Mat is trying to be gentle. Tyson still needs Mat to not enter his apartment; he’d rather live in delusion.

“I get it. I have to get over it, now will you please leave,” Tyson says, even though they’re standing right in front of his apartment. It's not really a request, and he knows he’s being rude, but he just doesn’t _care._

Mat sighs but backs away enough that Tyson feels like he can turn the key. “I'm going to check up on you more from now on.”

Just at that moment, when Tyson thinks he’s all clear, something in his apartment thumps. Mat’s eyes widen and he looks at Tyson.

“What was that?” Mat asks, as another series of thumps and a discordant series of guitar twangs sound from inside Tyson’s apartment.

“Probably the dog,” Tyson lies, heart racing. Mat doesn’t like dogs, right? Dante said something about it once.

“You have a dog,” Mat says flatly, absolutely not buying it.

“Yeah, and she bites strangers, so if you could leave,” Tyson says, trying to elbow Mat out of the way so he can get into the apartment without letting Mat in behind him.

Unfortunately, the twangs resolve themselves into what Tyson intimately recognises as the beginning of Wonderwall.

Mat isn't as savvy, cocking his head, his grip on Tyson’s shirt slackening. “That is not a dog,” Mat hisses. He still manages to look attractive doing it. What a fucking asshole.

“Barzy, could you just leave?” Tyson asks, thunking his head against the door. He doesn’t think it’s going to happen, but a man can hope, and all that jazz.

“That’s Wonderwall,” Mat says slowly. “That’s--”

There’s something in his eyes, and Tyson gives up fighting him. Mat opens the door like he’s scared of what he’s going to find, and he doesn’t know that Tyson’s heart is hammering as hard as Mat’s is, because Tyson is afraid. Just because Mat could hear the guitar doesn’t mean that he’ll be able to see.

**[twitter exchange]**

_you guys so i got_  how to let go and other lies i told myself _as a birthday present and i’m only a chapter in but this is so cute?_

_asdsdhfdf WONDERWALL omg that’s so. on one hand: cute. on the other hand: what a MEME._

_it’s 2am. i was only going to read one chapter. i’ve been sobbing for the last hour what the fuck_

_some warning would have been appreciated my sinuses hurt. fuck._

_- >i didn’t want to SPOIL YOU but like. mood. _

_\-- >okay call me slow but it took me until halfway through the book to realise that the you WAS LIKE DEAD OR WHATEVER. (is she dead?) _

_\--- >we’re not sure? people are saying dead because of all the references to being haunted but there’s a bunch of people saying breakup or ldr _

_\---- >is it bad that i’m kinda hoping it’s dead? because if i were the you and i read this i would just. i’d be dying. _

_\----- >omg no i totally get it?? like i just want tyson jost to have good things because like. my heart is still hurting and it’s been a week. _

_\------ >like does he ever talk about who it is? _

_\------- >i mean he just kinda avoids it in interviews and says it was written for someone special. _

_\-------- >okay now i’m kinda hoping it isn’t dead bc if it is dead and it gets brought up every interview i-- _

_\--------- >why did you have to bring that up it’s all i can think about now????? _

_\---------- >sORRY. _

“Why didn’t you tell anyone that Dante was haunting you?” Mat asks, head cocked. It’s been almost a week since they discovered that Mat could, indeed, see Dante, and interact with him, and was fucking delighted to do so, and had almost moved into Tyson’s apartment.

Tyson shrugs. “I did, it became a bestseller.”

Mat looks like he’s going to deck Tyson, then his face clears and he takes several deep breaths. “Tyson.”

“You all would’ve called me insane,” Tyson says finally. “How believable does it sound? Hey guys, you know my best friend who died? Turns out he’s a ghost and he’s haunting me. He showed up almost right when I moved here. I wasn’t going to say anything then, because I kinda thought I was losing it, finally moving away from home.”

Mat lounges in his chair. “You have a point. So is this why you became a shut in?”

“Well,” Tyson says. He’s never actually talked about this, and he doesn’t really want to even now. “Partially, yeah.”

**[ _how to let go and other lies i told myself_ , page 132]**

_And I guess the secret to learning how to let go is that I might never be able to. You’re impossible to let go off. I still remember exactly how you’d flush red, all the way down your neck sometimes, and how you’d drink your coffee, and the way you could never get that one strand of hair to lie straight, and none of those things matter anymore. Haven’t mattered for months._

“That’s a dog,” Tyson says dumbly.

Dante grins at him. “Her name’s Penny, according to her name tag.” He’s practically incandescent.

“Dante, how long have we had a dog,” Tyson asks, blinking.

Dante starts glowing brighter, which, Tyson has learned, is his version of blushing, and in the next minute, blinks out of existence, because of course he does.

“Dante, I’m serious, how long we have had this fucking massive dog?” Tyson says, staring down at Penny, who’s sleeping with her snout tucked under her paws. It’s really fucking cute, but like. Ghost dog. Huge ghost dog.

“Like, two months,” Dante’s disembodied voice says. “She’s just an overgrown lap dog, Tys, I couldn’t just leave her.”

Tyson wants to die. He also co-parents a dog now. This is fine. 

**[twitter exchange]**

_i will say, the worst thing about htlg is the revival of_ _wonderwall. isn’t there enough wonderwall already_

_- >there’s never enough wonderwall _

_\-- >look i made my little sister read this book and she has been playing wonderwall for two days straight. _

_\--- >omg _

_\---- >my ears are bleeding. i love this book but at what cost._

“Tyson,” Brock says, the second he picks up the phone. “Tyson, this book.”

“Yeah?” Tyson asks, wishing he had something he could fiddle with. He’s in the airport, waiting for his flight back to the apartment, and Dante. He really just wants to see Dante, because all these interviews do is make him miss him, and miss him, and miss him.

Brock lets out an unsteady breath. “How are you even handling all these interviews, when this book is so…” He trails off, but it’s okay. Tyson knows what he means.

“I didn’t think people were going to read it,” Tyson says. “Dante isn’t going to read it.”

“Still,” Brock says. “You have to know, how obvious it is.”

“I’ve been fielding calls,” Tyson says. “Mat Barzal pretty much broke down the door to my apartment the other day.”

Brock snickers. “What a dick.”

“I mean, Dante is his best friend. They were always attached at the hip, till Barzy went to the Thunderbirds,” Tyson says, and for once it almost doesn’t hurt.

**[twitter exchange]**

_wow. congrats internet you've done it again. driving perfectly nice ppl off of social media._

_- >is this about tyson jost? i saw he deactivated his Twitter. _

_\-- >yeah :( he was a p chill dude and im p sure it's bc ppl have been really dickish about him wanting his privacy. _

_\--- >i mean. typical internet shenanigans. _

Tyson’s neighbours are lovely people, but he doesn’t see them often, especially now that he has all his book tours and interviews and all the never-ending press that came about because he didn’t think this was going to be a big deal of a book, but it is. Other Tyson catches him in the lobby.

“Tyson, I don’t care who’s staying with you, but they’ve been playing sad country ballads for the last week and it is getting exhausting,” other Tyson says. “Like, country is fine, but the other day I think I heard four straight hours of depressing Lady Antebellum and that one song that was in the Hilary Duff Cinderella Story.”

“What song from the Hilary Duff Cinderella Story?” Tyson asks other Tyson. He’s not surprised other Tyson is into cheesy romcoms but he has no idea what song that is.

“I don’t know, that song about strands in your eyes from the dance scene,” other Tyson says. “Anyway, please tell your friend to chill a little?”

Tyson blinks. That’s--not very much like Dante. He knows Dante knows a ton of country songs, and loves country, because his entire family does, but Dante doesn’t do this kind of stuff, usually. “I’ll talk to him; I think he’s just going through a rough patch,” Tyson says faintly, because what else do you even say in this kind of situation.

“Thanks,” other Tyson says, beaming, and lets Tyson escape upstairs.

“So, I heard a funny thing just now,” Tyson says, as he enters the apartment.

“Did you?” Dante asks. He’s sitting on the counter, and it looks like he’s sorting through his collection of guitar picks, greatly expanded since Tyson started travelling.

“Other Tyson has been complaining about hearing mopey country shit from the apartment. Is everything okay?” Tyson asks.

“I can stop,” Dante says. He’s not looking at Tyson, focusing too intently on the picks in his hand, but his cheeks are starting to glow in that telltale way they do, the replacement for his blush. Sometimes Tyson really misses that pink.

Tyson sighs, and sits on the barstool at the counter, next to Dante. He’s never wished he could touch him quite as hard as he is now. “Dante. That’s not the problem here. Are you okay? Because mopey country isn’t really your style, and I’m worried about you.”

“I can’t tell you,” Dante says, and he really does sound miserable about it.

Tyson feels like a jackass, that he didn’t notice something was up. “Is there anything I can do about it? I don’t want you to be miserable.”

Dante shrugs and puts down the picks, giving up any pretense that he’s focusing on them. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk to Mat?” Tyson offers.

Dante frowns. “This is all his fault anyway.”

“What did he do?” Tyson asks, suddenly on red alert.

Dante just shakes his head. “It’s fine. Can I talk to him on the phone later?”

“I--yeah,” Tyson says, stupefied, and also a little hurt inside. Dante showed up to him, and he thought it meant something, but he’s not sure. Dante’s been weird ever since Mat found out he existed. “Here, I’ll dial for you, and then I can leave.”

“That would be perfect,” Dante says, and wow, he really sounds miserable, his shoulders up by his ears.

**[tumblr exchange]**

_Am I the  only one tired of hearing about_ how to let go and other lies i told myself _? Like, we get it, dude, you can’t get over a fucking breakup. I won’t lie; the entire book feels kinda guilt trippy, and this whole cagey thing he has going on in interviews and in the book itself that makes it sound like the ‘you’ died, is definitely just a marketing tactic that you’re all buying in to. Let’s face it, it’s just another piece of mediocre fiction, where everything surrounding it is more interesting than the book itself._

_- >op, could you take a chill pill or five? it’s 90% confirmed that the ‘you’ is dead, and that the reason jost isn’t saying anything about who it is is to respect the privacy of the family and also to protect his own privacy and it’s probably just bc of cynical dickheads like you who like to shit on everything that becomes popular. we get it edgelord, you’re too good for ~popular fiction~ _

“Now, I think you have to know,  _how to let go and other lies i told myself_ has turned up a lot of speculation, about who the book is addressed to,” Stacie, who is interviewing him, says. Her voice is grating. He’s tired, and doesn’t want to be here, and he’s fucking tired of these leading statements that aren’t questions that he has to respond to. This is so fucking exhausting.

“It has, but it’s something I prefer not to share,” Tyson says, because it’s what he always says.

“What, no details on your mystery lady?” the interviewer--Stacie?--says, smiling flirtatiously.

Tyson is so done with this interview, and he knows he’s going to be in shit, but he doesn’t care, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Actually, I’m afraid the person the book is addressed to isn’t a lady at all.”

Stacie laughs, like she thinks he’s joking, but lets it die away when Tyson’s face doesn’t change. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” Tyson says, keeping a smile on his face. He might actually be enjoying this. “The person I wrote this for isn’t a lady.”

He almost feels bad for everyone who's going to have to spin this, but he told them from the beginning what he wanted. 

**[twitter exchange]**

_OH MY GOD??? OH MY GOD DID TYSON JOST JUST DO THAT????_

_- >wait what happened???????????? _

_I’M P SURE HE JUST CAME OUT?_

_- >wAIT WHAT _

_OKAY OKAY SO hold on i’ll dm you the link to the interview but like. i think he just came out._

_- >uM??? WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN??? _

_\-- >TYSON JOST GAY ICON??? _

_- >are we like, sure though? _

_i’m going to go back through his interviews but actually i don’t?? think he ever used specific pronouns??_

_- >oh my god. _

“You love me,” Dante says, materialising out of nowhere, leading Tyson to shriek and almost throw his book across the room.

Tyson is clutching at his heart like a heroine from one of those regency romances. “Warn a guy, jesus.”

“Sorry,” Dante says, and he actually does look contrite. “But still: you love me.”

Tyson thinks he might stop breathing. “What?” he says, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

Dante is smiling a little, and running his hand through his hair, a nervous tell. “Mat smuggled me a copy of the book. That’s--it’s me.”

“I--yeah,” Tyson says, because there’s no point in denying it. This is exactly why he didn’t want Dante to ever get his hands on a copy of the book, because anyone who knows Tyson, anyone who knew Dante, can tell. His mom, and his sister, and Brock, and fucking Mathew Barzal, meddler extreme. "So?"

"So you're in love with me," Dante says, a third time, and he's still right.

"What about you?" Tyson asks, because if this is them, talking about it, he wants them to be on the same page. He's pretty sure they are, but it means something else when it's said aloud.

“I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do--” Dante sings. He fucking--

Tyson hates him. Tyson loves him, but also Tyson hates him. “I wrote you an entire book, and--”

“You wrote me an entire book constantly referencing Wonderwall, Tys,” Dante says. “You can’t say anything about Wonderwall for the rest of forever.”

Forever sounds pretty fucking good, either way. Tyson beams at Dante and Dante beams back at him, and the room is a lot lighter than it should be, and this is great. Tyson can practically feel how happy Dante is in the air. 

Tyson sits bolt upright off the couch. Dante blinks at him. “Are you okay? You're not taking it back, are you? Because you can't, you wrote a book and published it”

“Don't be ridiculous, I'm never taking it back, you're stuck with it. I’m going to have to send that fucker a ‘thank you,’” Tyson says.

“Send him a chocolate basket,” Dante says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “He won’t be able to eat it.”

“You’re evil; I love you,” Tyson says.

Dante makes the room feel like it’s washed in sunlight; he’s shining that brightly. This is literally the best thing that’s ever happened to Tyson.

“Hello starshine,” Tyson warbles, horribly off-key.

Dante disappears. Tyson’s not that surprised, but he's still in the apartment, and he'll be back.

 

  **[excerpt from a book review, taken from _paigethroughpages_ ]**

 _I wasn’t going to give_  how to let go and other lies i told myself a _chance till That Interview happened, because who needs another book of some straight white dude and his manic pixie dream girl romance, because that’s what htlg_ _sounded like, you know? (Yeah, yeah, feel free to judge me for prejudging the hell out of this book, I know.) But learning that Tyson Jost isn’t straight? It changed my mind, because I know that everyone says it’s a sad book, and heart-wrenching, but the other thing it is is soft romance, and there isn’t enough queer lit with soft romance, and it helps that this is nonfiction and a memoir, or so I assume, because Tyson Jost has made it abundantly clear that this is a book about someone he knew intimately._

_I don’t even know where to start with this book. Tyson Jost is not the world’s greatest writer, but what he doesn’t manage to do with superb writing, he manages to do with heartfelt emotion. Most of this book is raw emotion, that the publishers and editors pretty much didn’t touch. Reaching the last page of this book made me misty-eyed, and I’m absolutely not a book crier. The use of second person in this book, which I know usually irks people, works, because the nature of this book is an open-ended love letter. It’s something that reads too intimate to be shared, something that’s between two people but being spectated by millions._

“Tyson, c’mere,” Dante says, so Tyson does, and Dante’s grinning, and as Tyson watches, Dante reaches out and loops their pinkies together, briefly, his hand cool and tingly.

“Oh my god,” Tyson says, reverently, and Dante loses the connection, his finger falling through Tyson.

Dante bites his lip and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry; I’m not very good at it when you’re so distracting.”

“Shhh, we looped pinkies for about .4 seconds and it was the best moment of my life, hands down.” Tyson says.

Dante blushes bright enough to light up Tyson’s entire apartment, Tyson can tell. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“No, seriously, I know it’s hard for you to concentrate,” Tyson says. “Thank you.” He kinda feels like he might cry, because he’s overwhelmed but in a good way. In the best possible way, really.

  **[the end acknowledgement of _how to let go and other lies i told myself_ ]**

_Love._

_You know me so well, right? Better than anyone else. We were and are inevitable and forever. We've seen each other at our best and our worst and said those three words through all of it so._

_Those three words we say a lot?_

_I mean them. I mean them in a grand romantic way. I always do. I wish you'd known that before._

_I know you didn’t. I know it’s too late. I’m sorry._

_And I know you’re probably ready to make fun of me for being stupidly sentimental but you really are everything to me. And I’ll take you laughing at me as long as you know._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Major Character Death that is alluded to, mostly, but also exists at the same time? There's a ghost! Or two! Also mild not-quite-body-horror that has to do with fatal injuries on one person manifesting on the other, but just as aches. Also depression and traumatic grief and dealing with major loss.
> 
> On a happier note: yes. yes i am that person who named a fic after Wonderwall lyrics, what are you going to do about it?


End file.
